


Who's Afraid of Flying?

by versions91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bittersweet, Closure, Inflight Domestic, M/M, Pining, Post-SPECTRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: In which Bond and Q are stuck with each other on a very, very long flight. Bond is concerned; Q is alarmed.





	1. Check-in

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as a WIP, now complete! Sit tight, and enjoy.  
> Update: cover art by themuller [here](http://themuller13.tumblr.com/post/156228623216/whos-afraid-of-flying-chapter-5-versions91) \- thank you so much!!! <3

"Travelling together?" The ground attendant asks, as she picks up the passport on the off-white counter. It’s a simple, innocuous question.

"No." "Yes." They couldn’t have synchronised their answers better.

Q throws Bond a spiteful side-eye, which only makes Bond smile deeper, wrinkling the corner of his eyes. Bond leans forward, elbow resting on the counter’s smooth, sanded-down edge. "Don’t mind him, Sarah. Yes, Mr Owen and I are travelling together."

Pick your battles, Q reminds himself. So he mumbles, “I checked in online."

Another day, he swears, he would wipe the smirk off the old man’s face. As for now, he has other things to worry about. For example, the impending doom of spending thirteen hours and forty-five minutes in the air, next to one James Bond.

The attendant nods with a smile and types away. (Why is _she_ smiling like that?) Strings of click-clacks later, she pushes the travel documents across.

"You’re all set. Here’re your boarding pass and Galleries First lounge pass. You may bring one guest. Boarding’s at 9:50pm, Gate B33." Her voice rings with perfunctory cheer, "Have a good evening, Mr Bond, Mr Owen."

Oh, no one knows what Q is going through.

Q flashes her a quick, polite smile, before he turns sharply and goes. His graphite spinner glides across the glossy floor of Terminal 5 Departures with furious speed. Bond quickens his pace to catch up.  
  


* * *

  
The decor could use some refinement, and there are really too many people in here, but Q makes do. Adequately spacious, stocked with hot plates, tea bags, even wine and cheese, the lounge lacks only in what Q needs — privacy, peace and a proper table.

Bond signals to the right, down a wide corridor with pale oak flooring and furniture upholstered in silver and purple striped velvet. The left side is sectioned off by frosted glass. On the right hangs a decorative panel, a dull grey glass blotched with red, blue and white, covering most of the wall. Q sniffles as he walks past.

When he returns his attention to where they’re going, as they reach the corridor's end, his shoulders drop in mild exasperation.

"I’m sitting over there." Q points to the right and deadpans, "Enjoy the champagne bar."

"Arthur." Bond barely holds back a laugh and entreats, indulgent in his inflection. 

_'Aa-thur._

Q pauses mid-turn. He hasn’t been called by a name for some time. Not like this, at least. He has never been anything but Q to 007. At work he's Q, at home he’s just, himself. Now here they are, playing James, and Arthur. The thought tickles. 

_(Scene: two colleagues– ex-colleagues– unlikely friends, best for and worst at each other, and)_

The sense of possibility surprises Q. His mind jolts to a halt, before it could dwell on the thought any further.

_(A tickle: for the briefest moment, it felt nice.)_

Over his left shoulder, Q sees Bond standing in front of the bar, extending one arm to offer a half-filled glass. Why? Work has never stopped Bond from drinking–it’s part of the job–but Q is always sober when his hands are on deck. What does Bond want? Q scrutinises the man’s face, but it betrays nothing of deviousness. Bond tilts his chin slightly. Just a friendly social drink?

"No, thanks. I have work." The glass stays in Bond’s hand.

In the time it takes Q to set up shop and fix his privacy screen, Bond settles in the back of Q’s view on a U-shaped beige leather sofa. They are tens of metres apart, not close enough for Q to see minuscule pulls and pulsing veins on Bond’s face, yet not far enough for Q to ignore Bond's presence. Under a cluster of crystal-wired orbs, a pair of lovers clink their glasses, their hands in each other’s clasp. A few solo travellers keep their heads down, staring into their devices.

Amidst them sits Bond in a dove grey linen suit, sipping champagne. Having a jolly good time, Q supposes. With his right arm swung onto the sofa’s back beside him, Bond props himself forward, his posture relaxed (the fabric of his crisp white shirt taut), his gaze lifted, searching. A hunter in the field.

As Q arrives at this thought, Bond’s eyes return to centre and meet Q’s. Q holds his gaze unfazed.

From a distance, the blue doesn’t burn so brightly.

"Ready?" Bond mouths. Some patience would really become the man. Q shakes his head once and breaks eye contact.

Alone in the "business centre," a brightly lit yet dreary corner, Q sits with his back against the wall, waiting for a facial recognition match on Heathrow’s closed-circuit surveillance system. Instead of hacking it, which would have taken him an additional ten, Q has, for once, used MI5’s supervening access credentials. (Post-merger, JSS is all about co-operation.) Half a minute later, he manually confirms 15D’s location and syncs the tracking data to his phone. When he looks up again, Bond is already joined by a lady with soft chuckles and softer curves.

The sight prompts Q to reconsider the whole proposition of engaging Bond in MI6’s business, three months after Bond's retirement. How is it a good idea to hire Bond as a contractor, when he never answered to instructions while employed full-time? Now Q has the enviable task to break up Bond’s little chat with this woman and end their burgeoning sexual tension. Fantastic.

Q drags himself towards the champagne bar. Not angry, not annoyed, not jealous.

He just might be a little tired.  
  


* * *

  
Bond shrugs at Q’s cold shoulder. Jittery since check-in, Q has been holding Bond at arm’s length, so he could hide his anxiety. It’s normal to be embarrassed by one’s weaknesses, and Q has an ego, of course.

The flight to Buenos Aires is the longest direct commercial flight out of Heathrow, lasting just under fourteen hours, a misery even for seasoned travellers. Why would anyone who’s afraid of flying impose the ordeal onto himself for a science conference escapes Bond. And a “work-holiday” is just a bullshit concept.

Q should learn to say no more often. Moneypenny says the 007 designation hasn’t been reassigned, and nobody is rushing it. Bond appreciates the sentiment, but it’s only a matter of time. He doesn't mind. Doesn't care, really: it was a job. Hopefully, 007 won’t be nearly as bad as himself at handling equipment and abusing Q’s abilities like he did.

While he gloats over his ability to ruffle the otherwise unruffled quartermaster, his eyes sweep the lounge, catching a pretty bird or two, until he spots, in his peripheral vision, Q’s head bobbed up. Eight minutes and a half? Record-breaking.

Bond asks for confirmation: negative. Q must be checking whether he’s still within sight then. How mistrustful. He puts down his glass to go across, when the blonde walks over and reaches for the bottle of Castelnau in front of him. Bond readjusts himself.

A few bon mots and looks of intent are exchanged, before Q’s voice sheepishly appears above, "Excuse me for the intrusion."  
  


* * *

  
They are moving now, Q insists. So they leave, even though they have fifteen minutes to spare. Q must be ruining his game on purpose. Anyhow, it’s not much of a loss. The conversation with the blonde was fizzling out, and there was no time or opportunity for more.

"You haven’t had anything from the lounge." Bond suggests.

“Oh, I enjoyed the business centre very much, while you had wine and company.”

“After you rejected both."

A beat passes. Bond looks over to see Q’s face tightened, his parted lips resealed. The minute adjustment reminds him of knobs and levers, piston rings and valve springs. Q fixes himself like he's a precision instrument.

“It's nothing personal.” Q twists one corner of his mouth upwards. 

Bond humphs, but doesn’t press further. They leave the lounge for boarding.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first 150 words or so were posted on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/post/140619709941/whos-afraid-of-flying-preview).


	2. Take-off

The cabin: where rows and rows of people are strapped to their seats and transported to the same destination, trapped with no exit. Dreadful, really.

"Down this way, to your right." The flight attendant points forward with an open palm and lifts her cheeks, a practiced routine. "Welcome on-board."

No dystopian vision is complete without monotonous courtesies from uniformed personnel. Q pockets his phone, nods and steadily moves down the aisle. Bond follows him in step.

They hit Row 16. 15D walks into sight, and Bond takes his cue.

Q feigns disinterest at the scripted encounter. Keeping his head down, he opens his laptop carrier to check that every cord is tucked, and every gadget arranged in order. Of course they are.

15D wears a sensible reserve, but she’s glowing from within. She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, conscious of how she looks to the kind stranger. Does Bond ever fail to charm? Women love him: soft words, blue eyes, muscle. Maturity, perhaps. (Do they know how infuriating it is to have your prototypes irresponsibly handled and damaged, like some flimsy toy destroyed by a toddler every single _fucking_ time? They don’t.)

She can say no—her arms are visibly toned under a cardigan, and professionals travel light—but she’s handing over her suitcase, and Bond is reaching for it, touching the next second, when a flight attendant steps into the fray, interposing—

Q shoves his spinner into the attendant’s eager arms.

"Could you please? Thank you very much." Q flashes his best guileless smile.  
  


* * *

  
As they take their seats, Bond throws Q a wink of approval, which is met with a soundless, slanted nod. Bond takes that as tacit acceptance.

It soon becomes clear that Q is not a nervous talker.

Their silence is filled with small noises, a cacophony of seat belts clicking into places, of metal and plastic clashing in food trays, of overhead compartments slamming shut, of chatter, _excuse me_ s and _welcome_ s. On the runway, a low, faint howl subsists.

Meanwhile, Q has been as silent as night.

He shifts in his seat every minute or so, changing up the ways his ankles and wrists lock. Now, he sits upright, his neck twisted towards the window, his hands closed with fingers intertwined.

Telling someone "don’t be scared" doesn't do much, Bond supposes. Playing therapist would have been an option, if Bond hadn’t skipped every session for himself. Madeleine talked him through anxiety-management techniques ("Cross your arms, cross your… Stop it, I’m trying to teach you something!"). They make Bond look like a complete nutter. Well, That could wor—

"What does Dr Swann think about it?" 

Q throws the plastic-wrapped blanket to his feet, then looks at the unlit monitor in front, his eyes unfocused. 

"About?"

"The flirting, and this job."

"The flirting is part of the job."

Q barely gives him a look.

Oh. Bond sees now. He turns with both shoulders to his left, where Q keeps a stubborn profile in the window seat.

"She came to me." Bond squints, "That _is_ why we left early."

Q angles towards Bond reluctantly. “No, it was time. We barely made it."

Granted that is true, Q’s clearly in denial. His voice ticks, and something in the flitting of his eyes was… off. The most glaring tell of all: why would Q cockblock him, and _not_ take a piss about it?

As if on cue, the pilot makes his pre-departure announcement. Radio waves flush away unasked questions; answers remain unsaid.  
  


* * *

  
They could have met in Q’s lab, but Bond’s security clearance had expired, so they met again in the National Gallery. 

All was the same, except the bench was replaced by a metre-long love seat. Christ. Q wanted to blame someone for not telling him that, but then he was glad no one did. No one thought he would care. Better keep it that way. 

_(A reunion: should they greet each other with familiar insults, good-hearted gibes, before they take care of business and part ways again?)_

As Q half-turned to sit beside Bond ( _a strangled voice in the chest: it’s been so long, it’s been so long_ ), he saw the left corner of Bond’s mouth pulled upwards. The motion grew into a full, warm smile that flickered across his face. Q barely caught it. (Almost wished he didn’t.) 

"Ticket to Buenos Aires, documentation and passport," Q passed Bond an envelope, then placed a black ring box in Bond’s palm, "And this."

A round, flat chip, smaller than a grain of rice, hovered in suspension.

"Bugging, tracking, and radio transceiving for interception. Virtually undetectable, very sticky. Please don’t drop it." Q said, though he knew the warning would go fully unheeded.

Bond seemed rather pleased with the device. After a lagged second, Q cleared his throat gently and mustered up all his seriousness to speak.

"Now, since your mission hardly requires active support, can you tell me why we’re on the same flight?"

"There’s only one direct service from London to Buenos Aires." Bond blinked. “Less trouble this way, according to Moneypenny."  
  


* * *

  
Bond never pinned Q as a sentimentalist. An engineer and hacker, equipping sanctioned killers and the like: why would he be one? He couldn’t have stayed one.

Yet here they were, sitting before The Fighting Temeraire. Bond remembered a boy impossibly young, full of pride, speaking vaguely of imagery.

"The inevitability of time," he had said, like a wispy, toothless hundred-year-old.  
("He picked it," Tanner let slide.)

Inevitably, Bond’s time as a double-oh ended, and Q had just begun his time in stride.

He saw footsteps closing in, the shadow of a parka. The memory of their rendezvous unfolding before him, then and now collapsed.

"D–Bond."  
"Q."  
  


* * *

  
Now, as then, they sit side by side. This time, a hand’s length apart, their shoulders almost brush.

After a round of assault on their eardrums, the engines drop to a hum and the seats vibrate in synchrony. Safety demonstrations are performed: "Brace. Brace.” The revving then resumes on an ascending note, like a song out of tune, out of control, driven to mania until a string breaks.

"Cabin crew, ready for take-off, thank you."

Q uncurls his fingers and lays his palms flat on his knees.

This is the worst part, and this will pass.  
This will pass.  
This will pass.

The engines whine incessantly, heating up for full throttle. He knows what it is, knows it’s coming, but he is always overcome: a tremendous roar shakes him, knocks his breath away. The plane is being hurled at some 250 km per hour, and faster, faster it goes. Quivering lights streak above the edge of the runway. In a moment the nose tips upwards, the plane pulls, and then, there it is: lifted, thrust into the air.

They climb. In seconds they’re completely airborne. A map slides underneath, showing swathes of darkness sectioned by illuminated highways, the glowing veins of outer London.

Minutes later, after the ascent is complete, Q looks out to see a light blinking at the wing tip. 

He has prepared, has thought through the possibilities. To a plane, many things could happen, depending on many variables. On a plane, between him and Bond? Not much, surely. Meals, TV, some imitation of sleep.

There’s a hole at the bottom of the middle window-pane, which equilibrates pressure in the window-pane gap and cabin pressure. Well, if only he could punch a hole, bleed out whatever is left of the Problem, and get on.

London is far behind. He has resolved to sit with the Problem incarnate, so he does. This is a scheduled confrontation: _“the readiness is all.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely people who subscribed to the story and/or me as a user (!!! you're unreal): welcome on-board indeed. I'm thrilled and hope to do the story right. Heads up: the next update would take longer to write and upload, perhaps 2-3 weeks (an optimistic estimate).


	3. Up in the Air

They are thirty thousand feet above sea level; smooth cruising so far. Commercial flights are boring. Boring being rather the objective, Bond deals with it. 

He’s been dealing with it, the passing of time without event, waking up in a picturesque house with two of everything: pillows, toothbrushes, full cutlery sets. He slips into being a civilian, a retired expat with a pretty young thing. She leaves a trail of jasmine, neroli and sandalwood at the wash basin every morning, a beautiful distraction. By day he runs, pours a glass of whiskey, reads. Sometimes he takes the car out for a ride. (Thank you, Q.) By evening he takes her coat off and says hello with hooded eyes, his hands on her waist. (If she leans in and kisses him like a challenge, he’s in for a good night.) It’s a life of luxury, more than his patched-up bones can ask for.

(Yet, he’s on this plane. It’s like a smoker’s last drag, perhaps.)

He surveys the dented tin box before him (beef), accompanied by a piece of knot-shaped bread packed in clear plastic, and some orange, curried coleslaw plopped onto a side plate. Well, he expected nothing less.

Q has made a start, munching on leaves. Salad isn’t on the menu. 

Did Q specifically order a Cobb salad in advance, of all things to fuss about? Maybe he's worried about getting sick. As Bond ponders, Q pulls a face at the arugula half-bitten. So he makes an effort to order what he _doesn’t_ like.

Bond knows Q well, knows the important things—strengths (brilliant, loyal) and weaknesses (too young)—but there are things he didn't know, things he didn’t have the occasion or need to observe. (Q is, well, Q. He only had to know Q was amenable to helping, protocol aside.) The small things: a bias to his left side, even though he writes with his right; the ragged edges of his nails on the middle and ring fingers, bitten and torn; a case for salads, despite his lack of enthusiasm. They’ve been sitting for just over an hour, talking little and meaning not much, but Bond is seeing Q beyond the quartermaster now. It’s something new. He is, despite himself, oddly charmed.  
  


* * *

  
Between the time Bond showed up for the car and the time Bond showed up for this job, Q had come up with five strategies to deal with the Problem. He applied and tweaked them by trial-and-error, ran through iterations of his heart.

In the beginning, the obvious strategy was to not think about the Problem at all. That didn't work. The thought ambushed him from all angles, all places. When he handled broken equipment from a double-oh, when he worked on the prototype of a new explosive device, when he saw holiday ads in the Tube, red block-lettered slogans slapped on top of snow-white peaks: “ALTAUSSEE.” (Do ads have to be so specific?) Each time he compartmentalised and kept his head straight, chastised agents with the right mix of disapproval and empathy, shook himself to focus and get back to work, stepped off the train at the right station, but it could not go on. The drain on his mental energy demanded a thorough solution.

He considered denial, rooting a belief that the Problem did not exist. A lie. 

Uncomfortable with the degree he was trying to fool himself (he’s not _that_ far gone, not yet), he opted for an alternative: dilution. He’d frame it as just a small Problem. If it is a lie, it is more palatable mixed with truth. Perhaps it is more accurate, truer than what he felt.

These were the facts known to him: 

James Bond flirts with everyone. He flirted and seduced to get things done. Bond flirted with him to get things done. Bond lives in Geneva with Dr Swann now. 

Bond was his colleague. A work friend, maybe, at most. Bond was special. Q admired him. Conversations with him were just, better than those with other agents. Bond was the first double-oh he handled, and they had gone through a lot. And maybe, in some realm of possibility which cannot be safely eliminated, Q had been preoccupied (if he could be a tad dramatic: _plagued_ ) by a brief episode of attraction and emotional turmoil, commonly referred to as a "crush," concerning Bond. 

This would be a phase. Soon enough, those feelings would fade, and he would think of Bond with nothing more than common fondness, as he was sure Bond did for him. He just needed time.  
  


* * *

  
To Q’s dismay, these TV displays are first generation. And he thought they’ve progressed enough as a civilisation to replace all of them.

"Arthur, do you have an acting gig?" Bond gestures towards his screen.

“Piss off." Yet his eyeballs can’t help wandering off to what Bond is pointing at. He's attuned to reading any monitor within visual range: it’s an occupational habit.

So, there's an actor who looks like him. He’s in a white bedroom, looking through a closet. A laptop on the table: are those equations? Who uses software like that to code? They didn’t try to be realistic. The signs and numbers are too damn small, he can’t see properly to figure them out. 

Before he realises it, Q watches along. He can’t hear anything, but the visuals speak plenty. The show is set in London, stylised in cool tones and high contrast. Actor-who’s-not-him is with a man in a suit, who’s taller, broader, and has quite a nose. (He looks like… Andy? He looks like Andy. He swats the recognition away, like a stray insect next to his plate.) There’s an older gentleman doting on not-him with eyes like round marbles. Not-Andy is seeing not-him. Not-Andy is in a bathtub. They are moving things to the bedroom. _Oh._

(For god’s sake, why did Bond pick this? )

He’s watching a gay sex scene with Bond. It’s too late to play something on his own screen and pretend he’s not watching. It’s too late to look away without being obvious about what he’s not watching. He’ll just, stay calm, keep it cool and watch, while pushing questions out of his head and mortification down his chest. 

(Did he know? He’s not exactly closeted, not exactly out. He’s gotten quite good at passing. But Bond is, after all, a spy, isn’t he?)  
(Does he know now? No way of knowing. Don’t bother finding out, because–)  
(Does it matter? No.)

It’s a scene brimming with want, of two sinewed bodies washed in amber, their limbs entwined, their mouths open. A sudden shiver ripples across Q’s inside, like he’s the one exposed. He notices how Bond doesn’t look away or move an inch.

The scene is over. The lovers are at a beach, in front of… the old HQ. Bond reaches forward to tap the screen.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching something else."

“But you haven’t finished the episode.” Why do people not finish what they start?

“There’s ‘spy’ in the title, but there’s no spying. Well, that man’s probably a spy. Still, it’s moving too slow.” Bond pauses, and starts again, as if sharing an afterthought. “There’s been some action. Just not the kind I expected, not that I mind.”

(“Not that I mind.”)  
(“Not that I mind.”)  
(“Not that I mind.”)

Q’s thoughtless glance freezes. He fights off the instinct to widen his eyes, but he’s staring now. Bond looks nonchalant. He _shrugged_ , as if he stated the obvious. 

It shouldn’t matter, but the words reverberate without end, blowing a fuse in Q’s head. Q manages a one-line response in time.

“You should, finish the episode."

Bond mutters something inaudibly, then taps “play.” They go on.  
  


* * *

  
It happened to be a Wednesday, when he first heard about Bond’s return. So, over their weekly hangout, Q brought Tanner lunch and questions.

“Why is Bond on Pixie?” Q bit into his brie and tomato baguette, leaning forward from the extra spinning chair in Tanner’s office.

"Bond owes our American friend one. Something about rescuing a damsel in distress in Rome." Tanner dug into his chips, "The mission is very simple, but the CIA puts it on high priority. 009 was the best fit, but he’s still in recovery. They’d rather have a retired double-oh than a fresher.”

Q quickly reviewed his brief on Pixie in his head. It didn't seem like the kind of mission to warrant him babysitting an agent. Did they feel uncertain about Bond? It was an unusual arrangement. As Q mulled over the implication, Tanner asked. 

"Are you sure about working on Pixie? You could hand it off to R. You should enjoy your holiday." 

Ah, that much-dreaded look of concern. Q refrained from rolling his eyes and ruminated. He couldn't kick Bond off the mission without a reason. He’d have to argue something to upend the assignment. Incompetent? Unfit to work with? He’d put up with Bond for long enough, these arguments sounded incredible even to himself. Best not to draw attention. If this were just a small Problem, as if there were no Problem at all, he wouldn't mind. He shouldn’t mind.

There’s an upside to spending time with Bond. He would see Bond in person, and see how far he is from that self-recursive image of him in Q’s head, half-drawn by memory and half imagined. Bond-in-real-life exists, Bond-in-his-head doesn’t. Alright.

"Yes. That's fine. I'll handle it."  
  


* * *

  
Tanner wasn’t lying. He had said everything known to a man in his official position. If he didn’t tell Q it was Moneypenny who brought up Bond, well, something in her smile told him it’s better that way.  
  


* * *

  
They are thirty thousand feet above sea level. Things have been going _too_ well. They’ve shared parsnip crisps and Star Wars (IV and V, so far). They didn’t discuss. Bond followed what Q chose and asked “Shall we?”. Q still looked at Bond’s screen, but he could hear with his own headset. Maybe he should choose something different next, like Lion King, just to see Bond’s reaction.

One crisis is replaced by another, because nothing went wrong. Being with Bond as he is: real, not imagined. It’s nice. It almost feels like it’s possible, like it could be right. ( _A palpable future: Bond turns up outside Q Branch at 8:30pm; they have takeaway at his flat and watch a movie._ ) What tempting, terrible news. 

His plan having backfired, the cruelty of the situation cuts him with surprise. No matter how much he enjoys Bond’s company, he won’t hold this happiness with both hands, as if Bond has _gifted_ him, before Bond leaves again. 

He needs some space to pull himself away, so he asks curtly.  
  


* * *

  
“Could you let me get out?"

A hitch in Q’s voice catches Bond’s attention. They’ve just debated whether Q Branch could possibly produce lightsabers, and Q has shut him down with a loose laugh. It’s nothing like a polite laugh along other people, or a self-conscious chuckle after a joke. Q let out a laugh with movement, with freedom: his head dropped and his shoulders shook, like invisible weights fell away and tipped him forward.

The mood seems to have reversed now. Is this a panic attack? 

“Are you alright?” Bond asks firmly without budging.

“I’m fine, just–”

Mid-sentence, Q pops up, picks up his right foot and steps out as far as he could, while gripping the seat in front with his left hand.

At this exact moment, 15B decides he’d like to lie down, and puts his seat in recline. 

It’s not Bond’s fault that Q loses balance.

They collide.

Out of instinct, Bond’s arms go up, catching Q’s back. Q’s right hand hooks around Bond’s neck and tugs for balance. Bond feels an unfamiliar weight dropped onto his lap, a lean torso slanted against his front, and an arm flung behind him, touching across the span of his shoulders.

Like dancers in a dip, they’re in an open embrace. Bond feels the heat radiating from Q’s body, feels it seeping into his own. Q’s facing away. Bond thinks there’s a blush creeping along Q’s neck, but he can’t be sure, because Q leaps away in the next second and does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks ago I said 2-3 weeks, so here it is! Thanks for waiting, and I hope you enjoyed it. Next chapter will take some weeks due to exams. Optimistic estimate: Christmas/year end. (Also, subscribers: thanks for subscribing!!) x


	4. Gravity

The bathroom tap is a terribly flimsy knob, which you pull to get three seconds of sprinkles. Q takes all three seconds and splashes his face. 

Who does he blame? Himself? Bond? The fuckhead sitting in front with the world’s most brilliant timing? The stars that have conspired his demise? All of the above?

(He hates Bond for lots of things. Mostly, he hates how Bond makes him weak.)  


  


* * *

  
"Moneypenny, why am I in Economy?" Q protested through his headset. “I am Quartermaster of the Secret Intelligence Service, and I'm flying with British Airways. What else do they want? They haven't sold out.”

"Budget cuts. We do get a government discount, and lounge access! Count your blessings.”

“You’re holding out on me. But, fine." 

"If it helps, James is flying with you."

"J... James, Bond." 

"Yes, James Bond, he’s on Pixie. Doing MI6 a favour, or repaying. Depends on how you see it."

"He’s back?"

"Uh-huh." 

Q could practically smell mischief through the telephone line, but he couldn’t put his mind to call her out. He took a deep breath in and exhaled.

Bond had already gone and came back once. He’d gone. Gone. 

So stay gone. Be gone, completely, from MI6, from London, from where he was, his space, his mind. 

His throat dried. A tingling fury rose, mixed with a strange, nameless weakness, a quiet implosion. He mumbled something in the phone and hung up. Tea. Make tea. He was going to make tea. The top of the tin can was not coming off. Stupid, _fucking_ can. He slammed it on the desk, so he wouldn’t throw it. Slow now, _breathe._

He had no right to be angry. His mouth bended, but its corners couldn't reach any higher.

There was only one sensible thing to do. He checked in with R and headed to the shooting range. He kept shooting, braced himself for each recoil, and let gunpowder burn.  


  


* * *

  
Eventually, which is around three minutes and a half later, Q leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom stall (oh, he has stooped so low), and walks towards his seat, as steadily as possible. Without a word, Bond stands up and lets him pass. They exchange tentative nods.

Q is confused by Bond’s lack of comment. Still, he is grateful. 

“You’re half-way through.”

Bond rests his arm on the seat divider between them, with his palm turned upward, sounding almost resigned. “If it helps. Metal isn’t quite as squishy, is it.”

The truth dawns on Q.

Bond thinks he’s afraid of flying. The plan to travel together, the champagne, the gibes softened, courteous silence–Bond has been trying to help him cope. 

Bond is offering a hand for him to hold.

He should tell Bond he’s alright. He should say “I’m fine.” Because he is.

His jaw stays locked.

For days, hours sleepless and awake, he’s been preparing himself to keep a distance. He will manage, thirteen hours forty-five minutes will pass without incident. They could sit, he could pretend, as he has held himself together, always has. Pretend that he has only been playing favourites. Pretend that he has not thought of Bond often, pretend he was not bereft when Bond left, pretend this is another problem he can solve. But sheer force of will can carry him only so far, and by the seventh hour it is running out, because Bond is looking at him now, with blue eyes piercing, and they are too close. Too close: they burn like the flame he welds with, torching away what defences and self-delusions he has.

Q swallows, raises his right hand and does a little wave, as if everything is just fine, superb, if he could just look away–––

A violent jerk shoves him out of hesitation. 

His hand falls forward. Tracing a curve through the air, falling in gravity, in time, it lands on Bond’s open palm.

Everything is shaking—the seats, the lights, the windows—, every touchable surface vibrates frantically. The seat-belt signals are switched on all at once; gasps and murmurs scatter across the cabin. His hand clasped securely in Bond’s, Q finds himself tucked in the space between him and the seat in front, bracing himself. 

This is a hand that pinned throats onto walls, pummelled into skulls, steadied the aim of a Walther. This is 007’s left hand, except he’s not 007 any more. This is just, Bond, wrapping fingers around his own, pressing warmth into him. 

His heartbeat throbs madly against his fingertips, every palpitation threatening to tell his truth.

Finally, Q closes his hand. 

(Oh, this is how it feels.)

The turbulence doesn’t subsist, but the initial shock wanes. As the flight continues with occasional jolts, Bond holds Q’s hand throughout, as if waiting on. 

Q keeps his forehead on his left forearm. He should let go, but he wants to hold onto whatever this is for as long as possible. Fuck. If Bond has asked him for so many things with no questions asked, could he not have one?  


  


* * *

  
Bond came back to London for some paperwork on the Kensington flat. It was an errand, so he came alone, leaving Madeleine to work. Moneypenny fancied to drop by with a bottle of Glendronach 12, which Bond received with an appreciative hum. 

“A bit too late to proposition me, Moneypenny.”

In a blink of the eye she snatched the bottleneck. “I can take the scotch with me.” 

Bond smiled and let her in. They settled down at the open kitchen bar, looking out to the living room. The flat looked nearly the same the way he left it, except the books, and boxes of things never unpacked, were sent to Geneva, his new place, his new, home. 

They exchanged news, about Bond’s attempts at retirement hobbies, about MI6’s follow up on SPECTRE. Several glasses later, after chuckling over 009’s latest fuckup, Moneypenny recovered her breath and leaned forward, resting elbows on her knees. She dropped her gaze to the drink cradled in her hands. 

“You should have seen Q. Hasn’t been this mad since you left.”

Bond smirked, and tipped his glass back for another sip. When he put it down, Moneypenny looked at him, somewhat soberly. 

“James, you’re not so good at goodbyes.”

Her eyes sharpened, searching. Pausing a second, he sat taller.

“There’s a job, in Buenos Aires.” Moneypenny set her glass down, sending golden liquid to tilt back and forth, nursing a smile. “And you know Q, he’s afraid of flying.”  


  


* * *

  
When the lights are switched off, Q mumbles a thank you and slides away, turning towards the window. 

Bond closes his eyes, but doesn’t get rest. He sees Q staring, pupils blown and mouth slack, red; Q laughing, with his eyes squinted; the lines of his neck, curve of his jaw, skin flushed in pink. And everything that Bond has brushed aside–every favour, every spark in sparring words, the slightest tremble in his name (“Bond?”)–floods his mind.

The reason why Q, from behind a mask of surprise, let slip vulnerable eyes. The reason why Q didn’t clutch Bond’s hand in reflex, but curled his fingers slowly. 

Bond knew, has always known. It was a latent recognition, only that he never pushed for clarity. 

Stripping away his convenient ignorance, an awareness gnaws at him: look how you forget yourself. 

You forget, when you met him, you felt like you had smiled the same way. (Then, memory cut like paper.) You forget how he impresses you; he’s brilliant and knows it, which makes you unspeakably fond. You forget how little you doubt him. (You take his word and get on with what you’re going to do.) Q is code and rank. You don’t even know his name.

On a plane to Buenos Aires he’s Arthur Owen. He refused to look at Bond, but held onto Bond’s hand carefully, like he’s afraid to break it.

That’s not something Bond can forget. Not anymore. 

The blinds are lowered, separating the aircraft from a vast, endless expanse. There’s not a shred of light or moisture at this altitude. Amidst snoreless dreamers and seasoned insomniacs, Bond weighs his waking thoughts. He would have kissed Madeleine at the door by this time of day, but he broke the script. 

Is it possible, that this could be more than a digression?

He watches Q’s shoulders fall, an ebbing tide at quarter moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the delay. I needed the time to get certain parts right. If you're still reading, thank you. <3  
> As updated in the headnote: the last chapter is written. :) Next weekend will be the last update.


	5. Arribos; (an optional) Epilogue

Q can see the crow’s feet at the end of Bond’s eye. Cramped in these seats, side by side, Bond’s face is right in front of his when Q turns. (He just wanted to stretch his neck.)(Honest.)

Bond sleeps with the residue of a frown, head hanging above his left shoulder. There are knots in the middle of the brow ridge, shallow dents below sunken cheeks, and a dip underneath tight, thin lips. Q traces the changing contours with his eyes; he should be prepared to look away any moment now. But he wouldn’t get another chance like this, in all likelihood.

Emboldened by Bond’s stillness, Q indulges, taking time to follow every line and plane on Bond’s face, catching the edge of his chin, and ear. His funny ears.

Time and time, Q thinks he has gotten so close to getting over Bond. He kept on trying, tried so hard. Yet here he is, staring. He won’t deny it now: perhaps he could get rid of the Problem and let go of how he feels, if he wants to. 

(If he does, what is left?)

Q’s right thumb brushes across his fingertips; his trail of sight ends on Bond’s closed eyelids. At the first sign of their motion, Q swivels to the front and pokes his TV screen. Yes, he definitely has been browsing the “Newly Added” menu. 

“How’s your sleep?” Bond rubs a hand over his face roughly.

“Splendid.” It sounds a little stiff, but Q really wouldn't fault his delivery, given the circumstances. 

A flight attendant hovers and asks Q to lift the blinds. 

It’s dawn. Bright streaks light up blue skies, and just above the horizon, a warm pink glow imbues the landscape, spilling soft hues of cherry blossoms and lilacs over the cloud-dusted terrain. Bold waters cut and snake across hilly landmass in myriad directions, running far out of sight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Q says, before he pulls back from the glass to centre. Only then he realises how far Bond had leaned across for the view. 

Reeling in his long gaze, Bond turns inward to look at Q, a breath away. 

“Magnificent.” 

In a stolen moment, unburdened with who they were or are to be, Q smiles, his heart open.  


  


* * *

  


They land in Buenos Aires on time, at 8:55am. On approach, the earth is covered in green, broken up by strips of dark forests and square patches of urbanity. Bordering the runway, fields of grass roll under faint whiffs of orange clouds, like cotton candy pulled apart. 

They go through passport control and baggage claim like ordinary citizens, Mr. Bond and Mr. Owen. Bond picks up his bag, and they head towards the exit together. 

The sun is very strong on the pavement, and the humidity rushes down their lungs in no time. Q winces.

“Bond, there’s something you should know.”

By the time Q recovers, Bond has turned, and stands facing him with shoulders squared. Words break free from Q’s throat, running loose.

“I don’t like flying, that’s all. I—it’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Bond drops his lower lip softly, his mouth about to move. It's not much like a look of surprise. 

Perhaps Q should wait, wait to hear what Bond says, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to. He coughs once and steadies his voice.

"Take care, Mr. Bond. You did just manage to retire.”

Q extends his right hand.

Sensing Q’s resolve, Bond’s expression clears.

“And you’ve just started. Arthur.”

It is the calloused grip, the solid warmth from his palm, and the wrinkles around smiling, knowing eyes: Bond tugs Q imperceptibly closer, before they release each other’s hand. 

They part ways at Ezeiza International, feet firmly on the ground, and walk into a lavender morning.  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


_**An epilogue, optional**_

In some future, Bond is caught up by old friends in Bolivia, and he can’t help but think of Mathis. There are good reasons for retirement after all. Q goes back to London, and runs into Andy in Pret A Manger. Madeleine brings pink carnations once a year. 

In some future, gangsters are awfully incompetent, Q learns the pain of a bullet, and it changes everything Bond knows. They live together, because Q doesn’t want a caretaker. If Bond offers, Q is not going to say no. (And once someone moves in, it’s hard to kick him out, you know?) 

Bond will learn about all the other things Q fusses over ( _al dente_ means _al dente_ ). Q will buy Bond anti-aging facial cream, and Bond a pack of nail clippers for Q in retaliation. They will finish watching Star Wars on the couch, with Bond’s arm on Q’s shoulder, and Gilbert and Maude in tow. 

Eventually, Bond will know Q’s names, and Q will trace the lines on Bond’s forehead with his fingertip in moonlight. In various ways, Bond will become very familiar with Q’s weight.

A fork or spoon will always be missing; there will be a disproportionate number of mugs in Q’s cabinets. They will revisit the National Gallery, and see the Turner Collection at Tate Britain too. And—

There will be another ring box, another question asked. Another aisle to walk, together.

Bond will thank Moneypenny while pulling Q tightly by his side. Moneypenny will waggle her eyebrows at Tanner with utter glee; Tanner will grin the widest in return. 

Q will squeeze Bond’s hand, really hard this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew– my first multi-chaptered fic, posted! Thank you so, so much for reading. Readers who waited for updates, thank you for staying with the story, and big thank yous to every single one of you giving kudos, commenting, bookmarking, and/or subscribing.
> 
> My deepest thanks to [ BoredPsychopath_JC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/) for beta-ing, cheerleading and supporting me through this journey. <3
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day, and I'm quite keen on replying. You could also find me on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/)! (Please come talk to me, it'd make me so happy.) x


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